Page 153 of The Bonding Games: Part 2

I’ve jumped along with a good portion of the room before she continues, evening her tone, “My father is no longer.”

Everything in me recoils at her calling him that, but this morning, we ran through everything and decided this was the best plan to move forward after his death. Cooper’s face has scrunched too, the set of his jaw rigid, and I can feel his and the rest of my brothers’ emotions mirroring his through the bond.

There’s pin-drop silence in here for a few too many seconds, and I fight not to shift uncomfortably with all the eyes drilling into us, the gaping faces.

Finally, the man we’ve been talking to speaks. “Excuse me?”

“She said that motherfucking worthless, spineless fuckface is dead,” Tate rumbles, and I jump again, whipping my head around. His voice is much louder than it should be if he were still standing before the door.

It turns out he’s right behind me, a wall of muscle with his bulky arms crossed over his barrel chest, his glare scathing enough to peel skin from bone. With the door now unmanned, I’d expect the handful of workers in here to dash right for it. But no one moves, everyone locked in place by the revelation.

Calm, Tate, Ezla warns through the bond without taking her eyes from the man. Do not come on too strong. You are allowed to show your dislike—with our story, it would be more suspicious to have none—but your hate of him should not be the main focus when we share this news. Aloud, she says, “After the Showmaster, you are the first to hear this news. The events I am about to inform you of have only just passed, so, as you can see, emotions are still running high.”

There’s still not a sound, everyone continuing to gape.

I twist my gloved fingers together anxiously.

“Now, I will start by saying, you of course are aware of how much my father adored me.” Dumbly, our audience nods at her words. “He was very loving.” I’m sure only we can hear the slight stiffening of Ezla’s voice on that last word. Only we can feel the disgust, the nausea and hate, it brings to her. Scotty’s arm tightens around her as she continues, “Very protective over me.” I can feel Tate vibrating with rage behind me. “But, and I will be very blunt with you, that has recently become a problem.”

Multiple sets of brows furrow.

“Father was not prepared to lose me to these men,” Ezla tells them without inflection, one of the many truths we’ve chosen to weave into the equal number of lies. “We have been together for eighteen years, him and I, and he was more troubled mentally than anyone knew. He relied on me more than he should have, and he was more attached than he should have been, too. His love was pure, and he cared for me as every father does his daughter, but his fame did not bring him any true connections, meaning his bond with me was all he had. And of course, with him already mentally unstable, when I was bonded in Game 1, he was thrown. He quickly found it harder to cope, and I helped him the best I could, but he was . . .” Ezla tilts her head as if thinking of the best way to word this so as to be respectful to Joseph.

No one truly knew what her relationship with her father was like despite how openly he “loved” her. With her helmet previously on at all times and her lacking in words when they were shown on TV together—which was actually quite rare in the first place with their roles in The Bonding Games—no one would be able to gather information on it, so I don’t think anyone would be surprised if Ezla didn’t feel too much about his death considering everyone knows how heartless she is. She could even get away with letting out a good portion of her true feelings for him, in fact. However, we collectively decided—though admittedly, this was largely all Ezla’s planning with the rest of us chipping in with anything we wanted to add and our own opinions—that it was best to tone it down to have the highest chance possible at gaining everyone’s approval with us trying to become The Council. We need to have the smoothest transition possible; we don’t want protests or anyone not believing our story. And although Ezla would likely be happy with pure chaos, she’s made it clear she doesn’t want that for us. Even now, the thought of that fact has warmth spreading through my chest.

“He was getting worse,” Ezla continues. “He . . . There were tablets.” My heart stutters at the reminder of them, the truth behind my Bonded’s upcoming lie. “Pills made in these very labs.” Her intense gaze scans over the room slowly. It pauses on a small woman with deep brown skin. “You. You made them.”

Her eyes widen in alarm. “Y-yes. Yes, I did. I— Was there something wrong with them?”

“No. They worked exactly as designed.”

The woman’s shoulders drop a fraction.

“They healed Father perfectly well when he would slash up his skin and break his bones during his episodes.”

She makes a strangled sound.

Everyone else stares, dumbfounded.

“You expect us to believe he self-harmed?” a dark-haired man asks sceptically. “The Game Master had everything—”

“Use your brain, you fuckwit,” Tate growls behind me. “Why else would he want special pills made, huh? Why would he only want them for himself and keep it a secret? Fucking idiot.” He mutters the last part, and the man’s neck flushes in what appears to be both embarrassment and anger.

“I-I’m sorry. I—I didn’t know. I would have tried to get him help.” The woman from before appears close to tears, and I try not to wince. She’s clearly innocent in all this, but I have to remember things like this are necessary for our success here, and I’d do anything, take on any amount of guilt, for my Bonded.

“You could not have helped him,” Ezla replies, point-blank. “Especially not over the past weeks. He was losing himself more and more. Which brings me to the tablets.” Her eyes come to settle back on the man who’s been doing the altering of them. “You even said yourself you did not agree with his wishes.”

“I didn’t.” He grimaces, hand pressing harder to his side where he continues to bleed. I don’t think it’s as bad as Ezla made it out to be—she wouldn’t have struck him anywhere fatal when she needs him to fix our citizen tablets, and she definitely wouldn’t be taking the time to say everything she is now if it were—but it still doesn’t look great. His eyes lower to the tabletop before him as his voice drops. “But I have two little girls of my own, and I might have had a similar reaction if I were so scared for their safety.”

“But he was lying,” Ezla hisses, then works to level out her tone when the tension that I now notice had somewhat decreased in the room climbs back up to the roof. “He could not handle my growing absence. He could not handle my growing feelings for my Bonds.” Truth. “As I have said, he was too reliant on me, too attached and lonely. I was still there for him in the end, but I cannot be expected to stay with him forever, and even if you do not have Bonded yourself, you are aware of how special they are. Father knew this too, and yet he could not handle it. And so he came after my Bonds.” She has to pause there, and I feel her fury at the memory through the bond, making my breath hitch.

“The recent attack on the Neutral club? Those Exots were not a random group; they were employed by him and had been in his service for years, sent to kill my men.” That attack, undoubtably by the Game Master’s doing, was kept pretty quiet, and yet there were no doubt other people out that night and those over the following days with the reconstruction the club would have had to undergo that have evidently witnessed enough to cause speculation, enough for them to gather snippets of what went down and for Ezla to have known that no one would be shocked by that part of the revelation, only the bit about the assassination attempt on us. “But even if you did not believe that, the fact that he then had you put those buttons on their tablets should be evidence enough. I would not be so blind as to not see unstable men when my father was one of them.” A pause before she continues, “Furthermore, he recently slaughtered many of you, some of whom were your friends, I am assuming.”

The mood in the room becomes even more sombre, and there’s a few wordless nods.

“This is proof of his lack of sanity: None of those workers hurt me, and yet he thought they did for no reason at all. I was simply in a bad mood that day, as I often naturally am unless I am killing”—a few workers take subtle steps back at that, even though they’re all already far enough away—“but I had only come down here to learn more about the Avri you work on in attempt to find a more peaceful way to de-stress.”

The silence deepens.